


In My Master’s House Are Many Rooms

by BrighteyedJill



Series: In My Master's House 'Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, BDSM, Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a new slave in the Holmes household, John is having trouble finding his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** present slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, non- and dub-con (plus uncouth justification of such), humiliation, unhealthy D/s dynamics, corporal punishment (including gratuitous use of a riding crop)  
>  **Notes:** Written for [](http://s0mmerspr0ssen.livejournal.com/profile)[**s0mmerspr0ssen**](http://s0mmerspr0ssen.livejournal.com/) for [](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/profile)[**holmestice**](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/) Summer 2011. Thanks to [](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/profile)[**blue_eyed_1987**](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/) for the Brit-pick and [](http://catchoo152.livejournal.com/profile)[**catchoo152**](http://catchoo152.livejournal.com/) for making my sentences more gooderer. Hearts and flowers to my perpetual beta/cheerleader [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) , who asked all the right questions and made all the appropriate noises of sympathy.  
> This is a part of the ongoing [In My Master's House 'Verse](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/105708.html). Each story is connected, but can be read alone.

John heard footsteps approaching from around the corner of the long hallway and immediately took up the prescribed position: back against the wall, head bowed, ready to serve. He was exempted from the usual procedure of leaving his hands open at his sides. Instead, he folded both hands over the handle of the cane in front of him. He stared at the floor, waiting and prickling at the vulnerability of not being able to watch for danger. Years in Afghanistan in the service of one of her majesty’s feudal regiments had given him the habit of analyzing every passerby, no matter how innocuous seeming, as a potential enemy.

As the footsteps approached, John let his eyes flick up long enough to see that the man had no collar. So fine. John had to stay put. The free man gave John no more notice than he did the flower arrangements on the windowsills. Once he’d passed, John let himself look more boldly. He’d been trying to acquaint himself with the regular visitors to Lord Mycroft’s household, but here was one he’d not seen before: a tall man with a dark, curly fall of hair, fingers flying over his mobile as he stalked down the hallway.

John shook his head and felt his collar shift against his throat. Of course the real mark of his status was the ID chip embedded in the base of his spine, but John had found the old-fashioned collar, a plain black affair with a small silver tag marking him as a member of Lord Mycroft’s stock, more difficult to endure. Perhaps because, doctor or no, he could never hope to remove the chip, while the simple leather collar could be taken off, if he dared. If he hadn’t been wearing it, John wondered if the man he’d just passed would even have known he was a slave.

He pried his shaking hand off the cane and shoved it into his trouser pocket. He mustn’t think such things. The strength and security of the Empire depended on everyone knowing his place. John would simply have to learn; he was no longer a citizen. Dwelling on the circumstances of his enslavement only made him feel exhausted, and so he tried instead to think about healthy things: duty, the preservation of honour, three square meals a day and a roof over his head. Though he was a slave, he should consider himself lucky to have his contract purchased by the very Lord of the regiment in which he’d served. _Should._ Somehow, he couldn’t muster the appropriate gratitude.

Certain, now, that the man was gone, John resumed his journey across the house to the slave barracks, where he now belonged.  
\--

John touched his fingers lightly to one of the welts on the slave’s back, but drew them away when she hissed in pain. “Sorry,” he told her gently. Several of the lines seeped blood sluggishly, and one long wound across the girl’s shoulder cut deeper than the rest. It might need stitches.

To Lestrade, who was watching the examination with concern, he said, “Even with the best I can do, she’ll be days healing enough to work again.” John leaned in a fraction closer and lowered his voice. “May I ask… The lads in the regiment always said Lord Mycroft wasn’t one to punish his slaves this way.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Not Lord Mycroft. And not punishment either, if you take the perpetrator at his word.”

“Not His Lordship?” John frowned. Now that he was a member of Lord Mycroft’s household, he had a vested interest in his authority. Luckily for the Empire, his Lord cultivated authority like a garden of the most orderly kind. If someone in the household flouted the Lord’s wishes by treating household slaves this way, perhaps that authority was not so secure as John had been led to believe. “No one would have the gall to lay a hand on his property.”

“Someone would.”

“Not—No. His brother?” He lowered his voice again. “The mad one?”

Lestrade nodded, and John noticed for the first time that he looked drawn and haggard as he hadn’t when they’d been introduced some days ago. “Home from his duties abroad.”

“What duties?” John had seldom heard friends in the regiment gossiping about their Lord’s family, but on the few occasions he had, Lord Mycroft’s eccentric brother had been a common theme. He knew only that the man allegedly performed some special function for the Empire, which John privately thought might be a euphemism for being a useless git.

“No one ever says.” Lestrade shook his head. “Anyway, you needn’t worry. You’re a valuable slave, Dr. Watson. His Lordship appreciates valuable things.” He sounded almost fond. “Plus you won’t exactly have the same duties as Molly here.”

“It hardly hurts at all,” the girl piped up. “He only needed to see what kind of bruises would form from the riding crop."

“Is that what did this?” John asked.

“He’s a genius, is Lord Sherlock,” the girl said. “Done great service to the Empire. I heard the office slaves whispering about it. He’s been looking for— “

“Hush, Molly.” Lestrade laid a hand on her arm, where he wouldn’t hurt her. “Let the doctor fix you up.”

Before John could ask what service, exactly, Lord Sherlock performed for the empire, a young woman appeared at the door, her eyes fixed on a cell phone. She wore a thin collar with a graceful bronze clasp at the front: clearly something custom-made for a valued slave. “Lord Mycroft wants a word with the doctor.”

“Now?” John asked. “I was only starting—“

“Yeah,” said the girl, and disappeared back into the hall without once looking at him.

“What about Molly?” John asked.

Lestrade shook his head. “A slave’s time is not his own, doctor. You’ll get used to it.”

“I’ve told you, I’ll be fine,” Molly said.

John hesitated. “It’ll only take a moment to stitch this.”

“John, no.” Lestrade looked scandalized. “Never keep the masters waiting.”

“Right.” John pushed himself to his feet reluctantly, and Lestrade followed.

“I know it’s difficult.” Lestrade ducked his head, and John’s attention drifted to the collar around his neck: black leather traced in silver, adorned with a filigreed silver crest of the Holmes family. John didn’t know enough about collar etiquette to determine if the seal merely designated Lestrade’s status as a head slave, or if it symbolized some deeper connection with their master. “I was born free, like you. But Lord Mycroft is a fair master. A good man. He’s always shown me kindness, even when— ” Lestrade stopped himself, then said, “Well, you could have done much worse, especially right out of the army.”

“Yes, alright.” John pulled his arm away. No matter how earnest Lestrade seemed, John couldn’t take his words at face value. With the images of Molly’s injuries fresh in his mind, he certainly didn’t feel fortunate to be in this house: not with Lord Mycroft’s mad brother running loose. “I’ll come back and help as soon as I can.”

“Maybe.” Lestrade returned to his seat by Molly’s bedside. “Remember what I said, John. Your first duty is to our masters.”  
\--

The woman, who never once looked up from her mobile, ushered John into the library. At a writing desk sat a serious-looking man John had only seen in press photographs: Lord Mycroft Holmes, one of the most powerful of London’s feudal Lords and, it was rumoured, a close confidant of the Empress herself.

“Thank you, Anthea” said Lord Mycroft. "Dr. Watson, have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

John looked around for a place to sit. All the furniture looked very grand, very old, and very, very expensive. He decided on a wooden, straight-backed chair near the wall and sat quietly, watching Lord Mycroft mark up some official-looking document. The sitting didn’t bother his leg, but his left hand had begun to tremble ever so slightly. John shifted his cane to his right hand and jammed his left hand in his pocket.

Mycroft pushed his chair out from his desk, stood, and turned around with a pleasant, almost kind smile. “Well. Doctor Watson. You’ve been keeping busy already.”

“Busy, sir?” He remembered, belatedly, that he should stand when his master did, and pushed himself up.

Mycroft nodded an acknowledgement. “Anthea said she found you in the quarters of our personal slaves, doing some mending.”

“Yes, sir.” John tried to figure out how such a thing would have been reported, and then wondered if that was what Anthea had been typing on her mobile. “I’m afraid it’s an old habit. Keeping busy, I mean. In the regiment, we weren’t often idle.”

“No, I should think not. I’m sure you understand that expectations for a slave are quite different.” Mycroft walked a slow half-circle around John, looking him up and down as if to catalogue his appearance. “A slave is a tool, John. A tool stands ready for its owners use at all times.”

After the initial spike of resentment had faded, John made himself consider what that might mean. He hazarded a guess. “You don’t want me treating other slaves, sir?”

“What’s interesting,” Mycroft said from directly behind him, “is that you _want_ to treat your fellow slaves.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“You’ll learn, John. You’re a slave first.” Mycroft must have noticed some minute change in John’s expression, despite his efforts not to react. “Now, now, don’t fret. If you serve me well, I’ll allow you to continue your little hobby of practising your art with the other slaves in my care. In the meantime, though, you’ll need to fulfil the function for which you were acquired.”

“And what function is that, sir?”John asked. He’d been genuinely curious what such a man would want with him ever since he’d heard that Lord Mycroft had purchased his contract. “I trust you have access to the best… free physicians in the empire.”

“Yes I do.” Mycroft leaned back against his desk and pulled to hand an umbrella that had been leaning against the far side. “Those who handle my slave acquisitions seek out oddities. Slaves with unusual skill sets or bizarre histories.”

“Like an invalid army doctor?”

“Precisely.”

“Sorry, sir,” John said. He knew, even without being an expert in slave etiquette, that he shouldn’t be questioning his master, but Lord Mycroft had called him here to talk, after all. “But why?”

“There’s a position in my household that I’ve been unable to fill for some time.”

“What position is that, sir?”

Mycroft twirled his umbrella and smiled. “I have high hopes for you, Doctor Watson. You only need to continue your duties as you have been, and your suitability for the position will become evident.”

John didn’t enjoy the feeling of being tested on some unknown quality. Since entering the gates of the Holmes estate a week ago, every new experience had seemed to throw him off balance. It was worse than learning to walk with a cane, this constant feeling of uncertainty. “Sir, I don’t understand.”

“Another thing to which you’ll need become accustomed in this house. Good afternoon, Doctor Watson.”

John knew a dismissal when he heard one. He turned to leave the way he’d come in, and he continued to feel Lord Mycroft’s eyes on him even after he’d closed the door behind him.  
\--

John abhorred idleness. When he’d lain in bed for weeks at the Imperial Regiment’s convalescent facility, the unwanted leisure had proved worse than the pain. He could think of the pain as an obstacle to overcome, another challenge to face. The long hours alone with his thoughts had proved excruciating: filled with doubts about his decisions and a rising dread of his future as a slave. So far, his tenure in the Holmes household had not been much better.

When he’d arrived, the housekeeper, a kindly-looking woman called Mrs. Hudson, had helped him to settle in a private room in the slave quarters. “When Lord Mycroft thinks you’re ready, you’ll be assigned duties, and not before, mind,” she’d told him.

So John sat in his room, or wandered the grounds, or half-heartedly flipped through the volumes on slave regulations that had been provided for him. Attempts to get involved in the business of the household— with the running of the household infirmary, the groundskeeping, or even the kitchen work— had met with polite but firm rebuffs. Lestrade was the only head slave who’d showed any inclination to let John do _something_.

When the bell in the courtyard rang for evening muster, all the household slaves would assemble with their various heads to receive orders for the evening, and to address any problems that had arisen during the day. Usually John spent that time as he did the rest of his days: silently going mad in his little box of a room, empty of anything that mattered. Tonight, with Lord Mycroft’s words echoing in his ears, he couldn’t make himself stay there.

As the bell rang out its summons, John grabbed his cane and set off at his fastest pace down the corridor. The assembly room for the personal slaves, over whom Lestrade had charge, was on the third level, quite near the servant’s entrance to the family wing. John presumed it was so situated in order to give the masters easy access to personal slaves at all times. Access which, John reminded himself, resulted in situations like Molly’s.

John strode through the doors to the assembly room as if he belonged. Everyone in the room—more than a dozen men and women all told—jumped to their feet. Lestrade, who had been standing in the centre of the room, turned quickly. His look of concern faded when he recognized John.

“Uh…Hello,” John said.

“Are you lost?” Lestrade asked. Several of the other slaves sat back down on the low couches and chairs artfully arranged around the space. Now that they’d recognized John for an equal, they watched him with undisguised curiosity.

“Came to check on my patient,” John said.

Molly unfolded herself from a settee at the far end of the room that she was sharing with a skinny man in a thin shirt, and waved to him. “I’m really all right,” she said.

“She’ll be fine,” Lestrade said. “I’ve put her on light duty for the next three days.”

“I assume you don’t want the marks to scar,” John said. True, there was little danger of that, and John hated to use his medical knowledge to manipulate anyone, but he had very few pieces of leverage in this house. Besides, he knew the importance physical appearance held for personal slaves.

“No,” Lestrade said grudgingly. “Well. Come in and wait until we’ve adjourned, then you can have a look at her.”

“Thank you,” John said politely. He walked across the length of the room to the comfy-looking armchair next to Molly, and managed to sit without his leg collapsing under him.

“Well,” Lestrade said. “As I was saying, the Chinese ambassador has decided to stay another night, and we expect him to come up and make a selection around eight. You’ll all be expected to assemble for that, if you’re not already occupied for the evening.”

“Sir?” a long-legged woman laying on one of the chaise lounges piped up. “What happens if _he_ asks for another one? Shouldn’t he get assigned a permanent, if he’s going to be staying?”

“Any Lord of this house can choose as he wishes, Sally. If he decides to select a long-term personal slave, he’s welcome to do so. Are you volunteering?”

“No, sir,” Sally said, and seemed to shrink back into her couch a little.

“Alright. In the meantime, anyone who’s asked will continue to serve with respect and according to all the rules of the household. Understood?”

“Yes, Lestrade,” the room chorused.

“Alright. I have the primer here on the diplomatic party from the Brazilian Empire that we’ll be entertaining next week. I’ll expect you all to be proficient on the preferences they express. If you have any questions about—“

The door burst open, and John was treated to a replay of the startled flurry of movement that his entrance had precipitated. It took Molly nudging his shoulder to remind him to stand with the rest of the slaves as a tall man with unruly black hair charged into the room, brandishing a mobile in one hand.

“Lestrade, I have need of a slave for the evening.” He glanced up only briefly at the head slave before returning his attention to his mobile. “Have one prepared and sent to my chamber.”

“Lord Sherlock.” Lestrade bowed slightly from the waist, and John wanted to commend him on how calmly he accepted such superciliously-delivered orders. “Do you have any specifications?”

“It doesn’t matter. Wait.” Lord Sherlock looked up from his mobile, scanned the room slowly, and finally pointed. At John. “That one.”

“Sir…” Lestrade took a halting step forward, but seemed at a loss as to what to say. John could sympathize.

“What?” Lord Sherlock had gone back to his mobile, and only looked up again when the silence stretched to an uncomfortable degree. “Spit it out, man.”

“He’s not a personal slave, sir,” Lestrade said at last. “He hasn’t been trained.”

Lord Sherlock turned to John. “All the same, you _are_ a slave.”

John still wasn’t certain what Mycroft intended for him, but he felt certain it hadn’t been _this_. At his age, with his injuries, he’d never meet the standards to become a personal slave. He hadn’t thought anyone would want him that way. “Yes,” he said, though it wasn’t all the same to him, not at all. “Sir.”

“I see.” Sherlock returned his attention to his mobile and waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ll take Molly again.”

“Sir, she’s still recovering from her injuries,” Lestrade said.

“Obviously. Don’t be tedious, Lestrade. I don’t understand how my brother endures it.” He glanced up from his mobile again, and this time his sharp eyes held a hint of menace. “If you’re so determined to prevent me from bothering any of your charges, do you suggest I simply go without subjects for my work?”

“No, sir,” Lestrade said quickly.

“Well I don’t think Mycroft would take kindly to your servicing me personally.”

“I expect not, sir,” Lestrade said. He’d gone very still, but betrayed no other reaction.

“Then which of the household’s slaves should I be allowed to enjoy, Lestrade? How am I to work when you block my experiments at every turn?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I— ”

“Is it my brother’s interference?” Sherlock took a quick step toward Lestrade, who stood his ground with admirable aplomb. “Has Mycroft given you orders to stall me? That’d be just like him, cutting off his nose to spite his face.”

“No, sir.”

“So you’re not following orders, but rather have decided that you prefer your own opinions to those of your masters?”

Now Lestrade's expression had gone tense and closed, but to his credit, he did not back away, but merely inclined his head in deference. “I wouldn’t presume, sir.”

Sherlock moved toward him, sweeping further into the room with an air of authority he wore like a coat. “You’re still an idiot, Lestrade.” He waved a hand around the room. “As they all are. Now. Who would you like to _assign_ to me for the evening?”

Lestrade’s eyes darted quickly around the room. The other slaves looked away or ducked their heads as if to play least-in-sight. Molly made a barely-audible mewling noise in her throat.

John’s left hand was perfectly steady as he stepped forward with the aid of his cane. “If I’m your selection, sir, I’ll go.”

Lord Sherlock cocked his head at an odd angle as he regarded John. “You’re new to the household.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re not meant to be a personal slave. Not in that condition.”

“No, sir,” John said through gritted teeth. He shouldn’t care what a so-called master thought of him, but something about Lord Sherlock made John want to impress him.

Sherlock shook his head. “You’ll not do. I’ll take that one.” He pointed to the young man who’d been sitting on the settee next to Molly. “There.”

The young man nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to bow before Sherlock. John shoved down the strange twinge of disappointment that twisted through him.

“Jim, go get ready,” Lestrade told the young man. To Lord Sherlock, he said, “He’ll be in your room in twenty minutes, sir.”

Sherlock slipped his mobile into his pocket and looked at John again. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq? It’s a simple enough question.”

John glanced over at Lestrade, whose look of puzzlement equalled his own. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you--?”

Sherlock spoke right over him. “What are your duties here?”

“I don’t…” John couldn’t quite figure out how to explain that he had no duties. For some reason, he especially hated the idea of giving this man the impression he was useless. “I’ve only just arrived, sir.”

“Yes, clearly. I don’t ask for information I can assess for myself, so kindly confine your answers to my actual questions. Your name?”

“John Watson,” he said automatically. Then, “John, sir.” Slaves had no need of last names.

“An Army doctor. Well, my brother’s collectors must be well pleased with themselves.” His smirk reminded John of a predatory cat he’d once seen in the hills of Afghanistan, whose eyes had glinted hard and black in the moonlight. He hadn’t said he was a doctor, nor that he’d been in the Imperial Army. Sherlock was waving his hand again, beckoning. “Molly. I need to see the progress of this afternoon’s session.”

“Yes, sir.” Molly came closer to Sherlock, stripped off the loose top she was wearing, and presented her bare back for his inspection.

Sherlock ran a finger across her skin, parallel to one of the more painful-looking welts. He drew his hand to his face and inhaled. “These have been treated,” he said sharply.

Molly’s whole body seemed to draw into itself as she flinched. From across the room, Lestrade took a step forward, but said nothing. Sherlock whirled to face John. “I suppose I have you to thank for this, doctor.”

“Yes, sir.” John imagined, judging by the downturned eyes across the room, that a good slave would be bowing and scraping right about now. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but meet Sherlock’s glare. “She needed treatment.”

“And I need to see bruise patterns. In your medical opinion, doctor, would your course of treatment, whatever it was, affect such a thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you, doctor, have ruined my afternoon’s experiment.”

“Experiment?” John’s hand gripped his cane tightly even as he tried to hold on to his temper. “The wounds could have become infected. I was merely trying to prevent—“

“He’s sorry.” Lestrade appeared at John’s side. “I shouldn’t have let him interfere, Lord Sherlock. I apologize, sir.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade a long moment before saying, “The fault’s not yours, Lestrade." His eyes slid past John quickly, then away. "Molly, run to my chambers and fetch the riding crop. You know where I left it.”

Molly nodded her head once, quickly, then slipped her shirt back on and dashed out of the room.

Sherlock returned his attention to John. “You’ve seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”

John wondered, briefly, if Sherlock might kill him. Considering the stories he’d heard, the possibility wasn’t out of the question. “Yes, sir.”

“What did you think of my work?”

John’s brow furrowed in distaste, and he saw Sherlock’s eager inquiry turn quickly to irritation. John said, “I’d say it was careless work.”

Beside him, Lestrade gave a warning hiss, but John ignored him.

“Careless,” Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t presume too much. You haven’t enough information to work with.”

“I’ve seen enough of your handiwork.”

“Have you? Perhaps you’d like an additional demonstration. You did volunteer yourself for the assignment just a moment ago. Are you afraid?”

“No, sir.” John said. He didn’t fear pain, not after having it as a constant companion for so long. In fact, anything would be better than the numb monotony of his life in the house thus far. And furthermore, his pride wouldn’t let him back away now, not with Lord Sherlock acting every inch the master. Something in John rebelled at even the idea of surrender to such authority.

“Fine.” Sherlock had drawn himself up taller and managed to look more aloof than ever. He pointed to the floor at his feet. “Kneel.”

John searched the room for a hint as to whether or not Sherlock was serious, but no one would meet his eyes except Sherlock, who tracked his every move. “Here?” he asked.

Sherlock simply pointed again.

John swallowed once, and forced himself to concentrate on his breathing as he let himself down, first his bad leg, then his good one, to kneel before Sherlock.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s fingertips brushed the crown of John’s head. “Remove your shirt.”

John set his cane on the floor beside him. He tugged at the buttons on his shirt. He’d expected the task to be difficult, but his hands remained perfectly steady.

“Slowly,” Sherlock said.

John made himself undo one button at a time. He tried not to feel the eyes of the other slaves watching him, or the presence of Lestrade at his back, but he couldn’t forget them, even in their silence.

“Up.”

John pushed himself to his feet, with an effort. Sherlock circled him tightly, looking him up and down. He paused behind John, and pressed his fingers against the knot of scar tissue on John’s shoulder. “An imperfect canvas,” Sherlock muttered. “Unfit for personal service, by any measure.”

“Sir,” Lestrade said quietly. “I’m sure one of us would be—“

“Sit down, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “And the rest of you. I want you to watch.”

Lestrade backed away, out of John’s line of sight, and that left only Sherlock, who he could still sense moving behind him.

“Now, John. Go face the column in the centre of the room.”

John moved. He wouldn’t let Sherlock break him. Following orders, even under the eyes of a roomful of other slaves, didn’t feel much like surrender. He’d chosen this, after all. He could have kept his mouth shut when Sherlock had complained about his treating Molly’s wounds. He could have stayed in his room tonight. Instead, he’d gone out courting danger, and it had found him. At least by obeying this way he could spare another slave similar treatment. Surely that was a sacrifice worth making.

“Trousers off,” Sherlock said. “Pants as well.”

John stared at the smooth surface of the marble column before him. He thought, for a moment, of refusing. Then Sherlock’s words rolled back to him: imperfect, unfit. Days of idleness in the house echoed the sentiment. John tugged open his flies, pushed down his clothes, and kicked them away.

The door to the room swung open, but John kept his eyes trained on the white marble before him.

“Here, Lord Sherlock.” Molly, returning with the crop.

“Good.” Sherlock stepped up close; John could feel the heat of him on his bare skin. “Put your hands on the column, at shoulder height. Yes, just so. Keep them there until I tell you otherwise.”

The first blow cracked in the silence of the room and rolled through John like a thunderclap. His hands stayed firmly planted on the stone. The second blow hit at the shoulder, just below the scar. He gulped in a breath as a new degree of pain sizzled along his nervous system. After that, his world narrowed considerably: he knew only that the crop kept impacting his body—there, on his left shoulder blade--there, curling around his right side-- there, just above the curve of his ass. John felt the same giddy rush as he had facing a hail of enemy bullets, but this time knowing he could take the impact, that what Sherlock did to him would not kill him, but in fact made his body sing and scream in defiant agony.

“This is more stimulation than you’ve had in weeks, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s voice, low and rough, sunk into his consciousness past the cocoon of pain.

John gulped in air, and didn’t answer.

“You’re useless here. Purposeless. You find pleasure in sacrificing yourself this way.” Sherlock pressed his whole body up against John’s back. John gritted his teeth at the pressure against the raw skin. He could feel the hard ridge of Sherlock’s cock pressing against him through layers of fabric as Sherlock whispered in his ear. “There’s always been a little voice inside you leading you into danger, and here you are again, chasing after it. Baiting me.”

Sherlock slid a hand down John’s belly and cupped his hand over John’s growing erection. John’s hips pushed forward of their own volition, until he regained his senses and pulled back. He hadn’t even known he was hard. His hands flexed against the cold stone, steady as anything.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, little more than an exhale against John’s neck.

Then he pulled away, leaving John cold.

“Forget about that other one, Lestrade. I’ll take John for the night. Clean him up and have him brought to my room,” Sherlock called. “I need to see the progress of those bruises in twenty minutes.” He turned and put his hand on John’s shoulder—the injured one. “You can let go now.” He swept out of the room as imperiously as he’d arrived.

John trailed his hands down the column and let himself sink to the floor.  
\--

John thought his consciousness might have floated somewhere out beyond the confines of his body, connected to flesh only by a thin tether of pain. He barely heard Lestrade muttering to him as the man blotted blood off of John’s back. The touch felt far away compared to the memory of Sherlock’s weight pressed against him, Sherlock’s breath ghosting on his skin, Sherlock’s voice rumbling in his ear.

“Are you listening to me?”

Fingers dug into John’s arm, and he turned his head to see Lestrade frowning down at him.

“Sorry, what?”

“We don’t have much time. Focus, please.”

John nodded jerkily, because he felt fairly certain Lestrade was trying to help him somehow. He pushed himself up on the sofa where he lay.

“You need to do everything he says, do you understand? Do _not_ argue with him. Christ, do you even know how to…?” Lestrade shook his head. “Of course, you’re a doctor. You at least know the basics. Just… Don’t defy him. I don’t think he’d do you permanent damage, but I’d rather not find out, alright?”

“It would have been someone else, if it hadn’t been me,” John muttered.

Lestrade’s hand stilled on his back, then he resumed his ministrations. “Yes, well. It might have been someone who knows the rules and has been trained for this sort of thing.”

“Lord Sherlock doesn’t seem one much for the rules,” John said. A chuckle rolled out of him. The shaking jarred his back, sending fresh bolts of pain spearing through him. They reminded him of Sherlock’s touch. His cock was starting to swell again.

“Listen, John…” Lestrade moved around to kneel next to John. “Lord Mycroft and Lord Sherlock both, they’re powerful men. They’re used to getting what they want. I know you may find it difficult to obey, but I promise you, if you don’t submit, Lord Sherlock will find a way to break you.”

John laughed, then, and took no notice of the ripples of pain it set off, because what was he now, if not broken: wandering through a strange Lord’s house with no purpose, of no use to anyone. What more could Sherlock take away from him?

“Yes, well. Maybe you’ll be alright after all.” Lestrade stood and extended a hand down to John. “You had better get going. He can get impatient.”  



	2. Chapter 2

The plush rug under John’s feet displayed some kind of a fleur-de-lis pattern. He pressed his toes into it, enjoying the give. It was actually quite luxurious, and probably cost more than the entirety of John’s contract.

“Your mind is wandering, John,” Sherlock said from his place in the chair. He held a pad of paper on which he was sketching the emerging bruise patterns on John’s back. “Do pay attention.”

“What does it matter, sir?” John asked. He’d got used to the feeling of exposure in the time he’d been standing here, naked, in Sherlock’s bed chamber. At least there were no other slaves looking on now. Still, every time John allowed himself to drift to a state of comfortable detachment, Sherlock tugged him back. “You only need my body, don’t you?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock sounded more disdainful than usual, but John didn’t break his position to check his expression. “It’s only transport. Although in your case, yes, it’s the canvas for a useful experiment. I’m interested in more. Turn around.”

John turned to face Sherlock, who continued his sketching, despite having lost his view of John’s back. “Let’s try a little exercise. For each accurate fact I can deduce about you, you take a step closer to me. If I make a mistake, you may take a step back.”

“And if I don’t want to play?”

Sherlock glanced up from his sketching to aim an amused smile at John. “Let’s begin. You weren’t born a slave.”

John took a step forward.

“Not impressed? I suppose you think that’s obvious, considering your attitude. Very well, then. Your family kept a slave while you were growing up, but you always felt that she was treated fairly.”

John stepped forward again, slowly this time, as he tried to recall if he’d said anything about that to anyone in the household. He felt certain he hadn’t; he’d not even thought about old Marta for years.

“Yes, considering your affection for Mrs. Hudson, it wasn’t much of a leap. Alright. You’ve had sex with men and women, mostly men since you’ve been in the service.”

John dropped his eyes to the carpet, the fleur-de-lis pattern, as he stepped forward again. There could have been something about that in his file, though he doubted the Imperial service kept records on the bed partners of its soldiers. Had something in his manner given him away? The way he’d looked at Lord Sherlock? His behaviour with the other slaves?

“Not uncommon in the military, and considering your lack of squeamishness for the house’s body slaves, you must be comfortable with both sexes. Next. You’ve had previous partners interested in domination, and in pain. You indulged them, and you enjoyed yourself more than you expected, but you haven’t had that sort of experience for some time, most likely years.”

John stood still and breathed for a moment. He should deny that. Sherlock could have no possible way of knowing if that entire statement was true. John saw Sherlock start to smile as he hesitated.

“You think I’m guessing,” Sherlock said. “What I do isn’t divination, John; it’s science.” When John still didn’t answer, he sighed theatrically. “Alright, I’ll be more specific. Someone has used a whip on you before, but never a riding crop. Am I right?

John kept his face carefully neutral, despite Sherlock’s smirk. He stepped forward and snapped his heels together. He wouldn’t let Sherlock shame him for anything he’d done. The step took him quite close to Sherlock’s chair. He could have reached out and touched Sherlock, if he’d wanted to. Touch him, or strike him. Shut that too-clever mouth of his.

“Yes. Your reactions on that score were quite illuminating. Moving on. After your injury, you allowed yourself to be sold into slavery to fulfil your family’s military obligation to the Empire rather than allowing your younger brother to serve. Something about him makes you certain he’d fail in his commission, and end up in slavery himself. So loyal.” Sherlock said the word like a curse. “Loyal, even to death. Because that’s what slavery is, John: a death sentence.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Please, John. Even your limited experience with slavery—“

“No,” John cut him off, heedless of protocol. “How do you know all that about me?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I’ve seen you around the estate, though until today I didn’t put together all the clues. Your protectiveness of the other slaves, the rigid way you hold yourself, the stubborn desire to right all wrongs. A dozen other, smaller clues. The kitchen slaves gossip abominably. Am I correct? Did I get anything wrong?”

“Sister,” John said to the floor. “Harry is my younger sister.”

“I see.” Sherlock shook his head ruefully. “Always something. Well, now she’s free to live life as she chooses, thanks to your sacrifice. And today you’ve risked yourself again, for slaves you barely know.”

“Barely know,” John muttered. “You barely know me, and yet you’ve worked out my whole life story. It’s...” John searched for an appropriate word, and come up with, “impressive, actually.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and John went on. “Why bother?”

“It’s what I do,” Sherlock said. “I put the pieces together. I find things out. You, however, are a man of action.” Sherlock reached a hand up to John’s shoulder and applied pressure until John obediently dropped to his knees. “Ah, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re more than a novelty item. You’re fundamentally unsuited to slavery.”

“You keep calling me that.” John glared up at Sherlock. “Unfit. Imperfect.”

“You are, John. Flawed in many ways.” Sherlock dragged his fingernails across John’s shoulder, making him flinch. “But in this case, all the qualities that served you well in your old life put you in danger here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You came here to fulfil a function, didn’t you? I know Lestrade hasn’t trained you, but you must have some idea of the duties of a personal slave.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair and gestured between his legs. “Begin.”

John knelt motionless for several seconds while the idea sunk in. He had known—of course he’d known—what this would entail. He’d had no illusions about that from the moment Sherlock had pointed a finger at him. Now, however, faced with the man himself, John found his mind curiously stuck.

Sherlock continued to sketch. His dark hair fell over his forehead in tousled curls. His brow creased in concentration as he added some shading to the page. His finely tailored shirt gave a good account of the lanky body below, which at this close range seemed the body of a fencer or a runner rather than a bureaucrat. The trousers encasing his carelessly spread legs were made of fine material that looked as if it would be soft to the touch.

If John had seen Sherlock at a bar—well, were he not a Lord whose every social move was prescribed by protocol, and if John were not a slave whose decisions were not his own to make—if, if, if… he would have been attracted to Sherlock. And now, since John had no choice in the matter, he could at least indulge the fantasy that he wanted Sherlock. If such a charade would help him endure the evening, why shouldn’t he allow himself to escape that way? Besides, it was hardly the most ludicrous thing he’d ever done; he _had_ invaded Afghanistan.

“If you’re done convincing yourself, you might get on with it.”

“Yes,” John said simply. He laid his hands on the inside of Sherlock’s knees. The trousers were soft to the touch, as he’d thought.

Sherlock held up a hand to stop him. “What do you say?”

John looked up at him, puzzling it out. Sherlock’s haughty expression gave him a clue. John said, “Please sir, may I suck your cock.”

Sherlock sighed and went back to his sketching. “Uninspired.”

John lowered his head and glanced up at Sherlock through his eyelashes. If he looked closely, he could imagine a look of amusement hidden behind Sherlock’s stern façade. He could pretend they were friends--lovers, even--playing together for both their pleasure. He closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock’s voice, pleading with him, _”Please, I only want to see how it would be. If I do something you don’t like, you can tell me to stop.”_

John nodded to himself. When he opened his eyes again, he was able to look up at Sherlock and say, “Please, sir, may I suck your cock?” in a way that made Sherlock’s hand freeze against the paper.

His eyes met John’s, and now they held more than disappointed indifference. “Yes, you may.”

John crawled forward, nudging Sherlock’s knees farther apart. He deftly undid Sherlock’s belt before taking down his zip. Sherlock obligingly lifted his hips so that John could tug his trousers and pants out of the way. Sherlock’s half-hard cock sprang free, evidence of his interest despite his bored demeanour. It bobbed invitingly in front of John, and he bent forward immediately to catch the tip in his mouth. As he would with any lover, he listened and watched for Sherlock’s response. He was surprised to notice Sherlock had his eyes closed and his fists clenched, as if enduring some great trial.

John opened his mouth wider to take in as much as he could in one smooth swallow. Sherlock clenched his fingertips hard into his thighs. John went to work with his tongue, swirling it around the head of Sherlock’s cock and working it against the slit. He had gone without closeness like this for so long that the mere action of it stirred excitement in him. He’d always taken pride in being able to please his lovers, and being down on his knees like this brought back memories of other times, other conquests.

John could imagine that he’d chosen Sherlock, and that he’d been thinking all night about the pleasure of doing this: hollowing his cheeks and sucking firmly as Sherlock grew harder in his mouth. Sherlock’s scent--masculine and clean, and very slightly chemical--seemed wondrously intimate to John: something that no one else would have noticed about him.

No noise and no further instructions came from Sherlock, who seemed to be holding on to the chair like a life raft. John snuck a hand between Sherlock’s thighs to scratch lightly at the underside of Sherlock’s cock, and was rewarded when Sherlock’s hips jerked forward, seemingly of their own accord. Sherlock grabbed a handful of John’s hair and tugged him off. Sherlock’s eyes had gone narrow, possibly with anger, or perhaps suspicion.

“Stand up.”

John swallowed down the clean-skin taste of Sherlock’s prick and pushed himself on his feet. Sherlock’s eyes moved immediately to the erection jutting out before John.

“This arouses you.”

John lowered his eyes. He’d hardly realized his body’s response, but his fantasy seemed to be doing its work well. “Yes, sir.” He could imagine that Sherlock was the type of lover who’d be aroused by his humiliation, that Sherlock knew how hard John worked to please, and was playing this game to make him work harder, to make his release all the sweeter.

Sherlock jumped to his feet to stand face to face with John. His hand darted out to wrap around John’s prick, and he squeezed lightly. “You were hard earlier, in the common room, when I used the riding crop on you. Tell me, what was it that aroused you: the pain, or the audience?”

Sherlock tugged gently at the root of John’s cock, which interfered somewhat with John’s concentration as he tried to craft an answer. John had almost forgotten about the other slaves as Sherlock had hit him. The pain had broken through the shell of monotony that had been suffocating him, yes--the welts still stung, even now—but it was Sherlock’s voice, his words, that had torn at John’s defences like sharpened claws.

“Answer me.”

Finally, he managed to ground out, “Neither, sir.”

“Do not lie to me, John, or there will be consequences. Tell me: what caused your arousal earlier?”

John spat out the first thing that came to mind. “You.”

Sherlock’s hand on him stuttered to a halt, and his eyes focused on John’s face as if an elaboration on his answer might be written there. Then his eyes hardened. “Go to the bed.”

“I’m not lying, sir.”

“I will not repeat myself, John. Go to the bed.”

John backed away from Sherlock, then turned and approached the bed. The monstrosity looked larger than the entirety of John’s room in the slave quarters, and was strewn with layers of sheets, blankets, and pillows in no semblance of order. With the propensity for split-second decision-making he’d honed in battle, John chose to arrange himself on his hands and knees, keeping pressure off his injured back and presenting an obvious target to Sherlock.

Sherlock shucked off his clothes easily, without shame or artifice, and came to sit on the edge of the bed. He ran his hand down John’s flank and over the curve of his ass. “Be still.” Sherlock teased his fingers over John’s hole.

John kept his eyes open and fixed on the sheets beneath him as he attempted to comply. If Sherlock had been his lover, he would want to please him. He’d want to obey. If Sherlock knew him, he’d know that John wanted to participate, so Sherlock would understand disciplining John like this would hone his arousal. Therefore John made himself remain motionless as Sherlock’s hand roamed over his ass, delving between his legs to tug at his balls or stroke his cock.

“When’s the last time you had sex, John?”

John tried to recall. The past weeks seemed a nebulous swirl of sorrow and boredom. Not then. Before that, the heat and sweat of the desert. His mates. His duty. Camaraderie, but no comfort, not in that way.

Sherlock pressed a thumb into one of the welts on John’s shoulder, dragging him back to the present: Sherlock, the bed. “Answer me.”

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock’s finger pressed against his entrance again, and this time it felt cold and slick. “You haven’t done this since you became a slave.”

John nodded, and then a thought came to him that he knew for truth without quite knowing why. “You’ve never done this with a free man.”

Sherlock shoved John over, dumping him on his back and sending spikes of pain threading through his muscles as the welts caught against the tangle of sheets. “You presume too much.”

“It’s alright.” John didn’t mind that Sherlock had little experience with this. No, that wasn’t exactly right. He squeezed his eyes closed and stretched to feel a spike of pain in his back that grounded him. John wasn’t a free man; Sherlock wasn’t his lover. He spread his legs anyway. “Keep going.”

“I can, you know,” Sherlock said. His voice held a hint of the cold imperiousness he’d displayed in the common room. “I can do what I want to you, whether you fight me or not.”

“I’m not fighting you,” John said. He’d volunteered for this. He’d taken Sherlock on, and he would finish what he’d started. And, because Sherlock was still watching him suspiciously, he said, “You’d know if I were fighting you.”

“Tell me.” Sherlock stayed perched on the edge of the bed, out of reach. “Tell me what you want.”

“Whatever you want, sir,” John said. Despite all the warning he’d had, after being here, seeing Sherlock this close, he could accept whatever Sherlock needed from him. His whole life, he’d never met a challenge he’d run away from, and though his instincts shouted _danger_ at him, he had no intention of running away now.

“No.” Sherlock moved up to kneel right behind John. “Describe it to me. I want to hear you say it.”

“Your fingers.” John glanced down at Sherlock’s fingers, splayed against the bed. He could easily picture them wrapped around the riding crop, dangerous and sure. “I want to feel your fingers inside me.”

“Doing what?” Sherlock’s breath felt hot on the back of John’s neck.

“Opening me up. Getting me ready.” John could picture it, almost feel it. He’d had Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, knew the shape of it. He’d need to be prepared to take it.

Sherlock tugged one of John’s hands off the bed, and used it to pull John up and back against his chest. “What makes you think you deserve that?” His low voice should have seemed menacing, but its rumbling tones sent quicksilver pleasure trickling through John’s veins. “As a master, isn’t it my right to take you without regard for your pleasure?”

John chuckled as the answer came to him, though the movement brought the welts on his back into painful contact with Sherlock’s body. “You like to see my reactions,” he said. “It isn’t about just getting off as quickly as possible. If that were the case, you’d not have cared which slave you got.”

“Good observation, John. You deserve a reward.” Sherlock slid his unexpectedly slick hand over John’s fingers, coating them with lube. “Go on. Prepare yourself.”

John shouldn’t have felt a pang of disappointment that he wouldn’t get to feel Sherlock’s fingers inside of him. He closed his eyes and imagined, again, how it would be: Sherlock would have touched him that way many times before. This would be a new opportunity, something Sherlock had been wanting to try. When John let himself think about why, he quickly found the answer. “Let me go,” he said. “You’ll be able to see me better.”

Slowly, Sherlock removed his arm from around John. He withdrew as far as the headboard and leaned against it. He watched John closely as he wrapped a hand around his own cock.

John rubbed his fingers together to spread the lube. He shifted his knees farther apart to give Sherlock a proper view. He could do this, easily. If he imagined that he loved this strange, impossible man who had the power to control his every action, this wouldn’t be difficult. If he loved Sherlock, he’d want to give him a good show, to have him hard and aching in anticipation.

John reached behind himself and pressed a single finger to the opening Sherlock had been teasing. As he slid the finger inside, he realized that Sherlock was watching not his ass, but his face. The attention there seemed to sink into him, beneath the skin, down into his brain, his every thought. John had to look away as he worked his finger in and out, adjusting to the stretch.

Sherlock’s expression held open curiosity, bordering on wonder. The tension in his body and sharp, abortive movements of his hands suggested he wanted to touch but was restraining himself. John wondered why Sherlock would show such temperance when he had the right to take John any way he wanted.

John slid his finger out and returned with two together. He lowered himself on his hand, sinking his fingers in to the hilt. Even with Sherlock’s eyes on him, he was able to relax enough to make the movement pleasurable. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Sherlock urging him on: not a casual observer, but an active participant intent on John’s pleasure.

John bent his fingers and shifted his hips back. His fingertips brushed against the spot he’d been looking for. He caught his breath in his teeth and only barely managed to keep his hips from pumping forward, seeking friction. His hard cock twitched against his belly.

“Do that again.” Sherlock’s voice came from very close to John’s ear. He hadn’t even heard Sherlock move.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock kneeling beside him on the bed, attention fixed on John’s open mouth.

John withdrew his fingers and slid them slowly back in. The motion sent a spasm of pleasure rolling through him that must have shown in his eyes. Sherlock edged closer. Just as John had wanted, he had Sherlock riding closer to the edge as his anticipation built. Sherlock darted his hand between John’s legs to grab his wrist. He pulled firmly at John’s hand until his fingers nearly slipped free, then quickly shoved the hand up, sending John’s fingers back inside him.

“How does it feel?” Sherlock’s voice sounded half an octave lower than it had before.

“Good.” John reached for his cock with his other hand, but Sherlock batted it away.

“Not merely good. Chocolate biscuits are _good_. Tell me how this feels.”

John gave himself a moment to think as Sherlock guided John’s fingers inside again, repeating the sensation. He didn’t have the words for this, but he tried, because he’d got the impression that Sherlock liked to hear the facts, the details. “It’s a tightness and a pull,” he said haltingly, working to give a steady report. “Plus a tugging inside like all of me is gathering for something, coming together. And it spreads from there, too, until I feel it in my toes and the top of my head.”

Sherlock angled John’s fingers slightly up and guided them in again, as if John’s hand were no more than a convenient sex toy for him to manipulate. He hit a new spot inside John, sending his muscles clenching. “Can you achieve orgasm from this stimulation alone?”

John shook his head. “Need more.”

Sherlock leaned closer, though he still only touched John’s wrist. “What do you need?”

John tried again to touch himself, but Sherlock caught his wrist and pulled it up behind his back, immobilizing him.

“What do you need?” Sherlock growled.

John bounced up and down on his hand, trying to get more stimulation. Sherlock didn’t prevent him, merely watched with marked interest as John tried with increasing desperation to get himself off. John shifted forward, backward, looking for friction against his cock, but Sherlock kept him in place, observing, testing John’s limits. At last, legs trembling and cock throbbing, John slumped in Sherlock’s grip.

Sherlock drew John against his chest and whispered. “What do you need?”

John closed his eyes. He’d known, when he agreed-- _had he agreed?_ \--to this, that this moment would come. If they’d been lovers, it would have happened this way, too--Sherlock pushing and teasing and dragging John were he wanted him: half out of his mind with arousal. He said, “I need you to fuck me, sir.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. He relinquished his grip on John’s hands only long enough to situate himself against the headboard. Then he pulled John into his lap, facing him. He settled John’s hands on the headboard behind him and snapped. “Don’t let go.” He curled a hand around John’s hip, and grabbed his own prick with the other. His harsh, angular face was inches from John’s. “If you want it, show me.”

John was finding it hard to breathe properly with his blood roaring in his ears and his cock distractingly hard. Behind Sherlock’s defiant words, he imagined a playful lover testing his limits. If Sherlock loved him, he’d want to give John this in bed: danger, the unknown, a challenge, just as he’d had on the battlefield.

John breathed in deeply to steady himself, then sank down on Sherlock’s cock. The weighty head of it breached him with a painful stretch, but he didn’t stop. He kept his eyes focused on Sherlock’s as he lowered himself, taking in inch after inch of Sherlock until John’s ass rested against his thighs.

“How does it feel?” John asked shakily.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but quickly snapped his teeth shut and shook his head. John knew the feeling.

After a few moments in which they both sat still, just breathing, Sherlock gripped John around the waist. “Move,” he snapped.

John rolled his hips forward experimentally. Sherlock gouged his fingers into John’s skin. “Don’t test me,” he ground out.

John smiled at the urgency on Sherlock’s face. He’d always had a certain expertise in discovering what his lovers enjoyed, and it seemed he hadn’t lost those skills. Using the headboard for leverage, he raised himself up and dropped back down quickly.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Again.”

John set up a rhythm, clenching his muscles as he drew himself up, then slamming back down to take Sherlock fully inside. In this position, Sherlock’s prick slid into him at just the right angle to send fissions of pleasure sparking through him. He gripped the headboard tightly, fighting the urge to touch himself as he moved.

Sherlock’s grip on him tightened. He dropped his head back against the headboard and squeezed his eyes shut.

“It’s alright,” John gasped between thrusts. As his own arousal spiralled upwards, John began to accelerate. “I can take it.”

With an inarticulate cry, Sherlock shoved him backwards, breaking John’s grip on the headboard and sending him tumbling onto his side, so that his injured back didn’t bear the brunt of his weight. He shoved John’s good leg up and began rutting into him, wrapping his arms around John and burying his face in his shoulder as he took him.

With a quiet gasp, Sherlock went stiff and tense, even as his hips continued to snap forward, driving his cock deep into John. “John,” Sherlock gasped, not much more than a strangled breath held back in his throat, and his cock pulsed inside John, spilling his release. Sherlock buried himself fully inside John and stayed there, panting, for the space of several breaths.

John lay still beneath Sherlock, whose weight seemed more than his skinny frame might suggest. Laid open this way, Sherlock seemed, for the first time since John had encountered him, completely relaxed, stripped of the physical posturing and emotional armour he presented to the world.

After a moment, Sherlock started and jerked back, gulping in air as if just breaking the surface of the water after a long dive. He shifted against John, dragging his belly against John’s erection where it lay trapped between them.

Sherlock looked down at John’s cock and wrapped his hand around it gently, almost experimentally. “Bodies are no mystery to me,” Sherlock said, but he did not sound convinced.

“Nor to me,” John offered. “I _am_ a doctor.”

“And a slave.” Sherlock thumbed the head of John’s cock, smearing a drop of pre-come leaking from the tip. John shuddered and his muscles clenched, squeezing around Sherlock’s softening cock in his ass. He didn’t feel like a slave. Even like this, used and debauched in Sherlock’s bed, he didn’t feel conquered.

“You can make yourself enjoy this,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t anticipate that.”

“I’m full of surprises.” John held still as Sherlock tugged idly at his cock. The friction felt good, keeping him close to the peak of arousal but not quite enough to finish him off. Finally, he snapped, “Well?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

“Finish it. Sir,” John hissed.

“Ask for what you want, slave, and perhaps I’ll grant it,” Sherlock said, but the order was too archly delivered to have any real punch.

“Fine.” John’s pulse thudded through his whole body like the thunder of distant guns. He bucked up against Sherlock, struggling toward the finish he so desperately needed. If Sherlock was his lover, if he knew him, his body, his desires, he would understand what John needed. “Please sir,” he said. The words came quickly, in one long gasp, as if he were running out of air. “I want you to touch me until I lose control of myself and come under your hand. I want you to undo me.”

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock’s smug look vanished. He tightened his grip on John and began to stroke, slowly at first, but watching closely for any response from John and changing his technique accordingly. He learned John easily, like a virtuoso picking up the instrument he was destined to play. Mere minutes saw John panting and writhing under Sherlock.

“Please,” John said softly, with eyes squeezed shut. “Sir, please.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock twisted his hand expertly around the head of John’s cock, just the right move to send John tipping over the edge.

As John’s hips slammed forward, Sherlock bent down to fit his clever mouth to John’s slack one. He kissed an unresisting John through the final shudders of his orgasm, and kept kissing him until the scattered pieces of John’s consciousness floated back and he was able to feel Sherlock’s mouth, taste him, and respond.

Then Sherlock drew away, pulling out of John, releasing him, and rolling to the edge of the bed to sit up.

John allowed himself another minute of recovery before he retreated to the opposite corner of the bed. Before he could begin gathering his clothes, Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

“You’ve never done this before. As a slave, I mean.”

Though he wasn’t facing Sherlock, John shook his head. “As you said. I haven’t been a slave for long. I’m sure you’d have no trouble accessing the file.”

“And you’ve never had training as a personal slave.”

“You already knew I haven’t.” John turned to glance at Sherlock, who looked rather small, sitting pale and naked at the far end of the bed. “I thought you didn’t like to repeat the obvious.”

In an instant, Sherlock had jumped to his feet, rounded the bed, and pounced on John, pinning him to the mattress. “And you won’t. You’re mine. If I find you’re deceiving me...” Sherlock closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they seemed empty of all the feeling that had been crowding within them before. “Oh, John. You should imagine what I’m capable of.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Sherlock brushed his fingers against the tag on John’s collar. “You should be.”

Sherlock rolled off him. He wiped his hands on a towel laid out on a chair, then brought the towel back to wipe John down before climbing back into bed and pulling John in beside him. “Hush, now.”

Though John had always had trouble finding sleep in his slave quarters, here in Sherlock’s bed, in the circle of his arms, sleep found John almost immediately.  
\--

John woke alone.

He hadn’t expected Sherlock to stay. In fact, he hadn’t expected to spend the night in Sherlock’s room, let alone his bed. He rose and made himself presentable as best he could. A quick look in the mirror confirmed that he’d need to have someone help him treat the welts from the riding crop today. His back felt stiff and sore, but the rest of him only felt pleasantly worked out. As he dressed, he allowed himself to remember the feel of Sherlock touching him, moving inside him. He shouldn’t have enjoyed such a thing, but the memories held no horror for him.

When he was decent, John ventured out into the corridor and began finding his way back to the slave quarters. He didn’t remember much of the previous evening’s journey to Sherlock’s chambers, so he found himself mostly guessing at each turn of the hallway.

As he rounded one corner into a finely appointed corridor that was certainly _not_ the slave’s quarters, John caught sight of a man approaching from further down the hall. Immediately he stepped to the side and assumed the proper position of deference.

Eyes carefully fixed on the floor, John only saw a familiar-looking pair of brightly-shined shoes and dark trousers. The man stopped in front of John and turned. When he spoke, John’s suspicions were confirmed.

“Look at me,” Lord Mycroft said. John let his eyes drift up to face his master. Mycroft nodded slowly. “You were with Sherlock last night.”

“Yes, sir.” John wondered if Lestrade had told him, or if he’d somehow figured that out on his own.

“And this morning you’re walking without a cane.”

John looked down and realized that yes, he wasn’t holding his cane, and in fact had not seen it since the previous evening. “I… ”

“Yes. Well.” Mycroft patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll send my assistant around to collect you in a while. We’ll need to have a chat about that position I mentioned. Carry on.” Mycroft nodded and walked away.

John managed a half-hearted “Yes, sir,” to his master’s retreating back. Recognizing this part of the house at last, he changed course, going the long way around the gardens to avoid the possibility of running into anyone else on his path back to his quarters. Whatever role Lord Mycroft had in mind for him, he wasn’t interested. He also had the impression that Sherlock might have opinions about his position in the household as well.

When John finally gained the safety of his room, he found a square box sitting in the middle of his bed. Warily, he pulled off the lid. On top of folded tissue paper sat a brief note in a gracefully scrawled hand. John set it aside for the moment in favour of flicking back the paper. Inside the box was nestled a plain black leather collar. A small silver tag on the front bore the personal seal of Sherlock Holmes. When he reached down to touch it, he found the leather soft and almost warm, like a living thing.

He looked at the note.

_John –_

_I’ve asked my brother to extend you a choice of masters, and have offered to buy out your contract should you decide you prefer to belong to me. Consider your answer carefully, as you’ll not have an opportunity to change your mind._

_\- SH_

A brisk knock sounded at the door, and John looked up to see Anthea leaning in the doorway of his tiny room.

“You’re needed in the library,” she said. “Lord Mycroft wants a word.”

“Yes.” John picked up Sherlock’s collar from the box and held it in both hands. It felt unaccountably heavy.

When he looked up, Anthea was studying him with a smile hovering around her mouth. “It’s like that, is it?” she asked.

John nodded again, and ran his thumb over the silver seal that would mark him as Sherlock’s.

“Well, bring it with you,” she said.

John didn’t take his eyes off the new collar the entire walk to the library, trusting in Anthea to steer him away from obstacles.

When they reached their destination, she put a hand on his arm. “You should be certain, if you intend to do this.”

John nodded. “I’m not afraid.”

Anthea smiled at him, and said, “More fool, you.” She pushed the door open and ushered him in.

Lord Sherlock and Lord Mycroft sat in armchairs in front of the fire, facing each other and wearing nearly-identical frowns. John’s attention was drawn immediately to Sherlock, who, though dressed in a freshly-pressed and impeccably tailored suit, still looked rather haggard.

“Come in, John,” Lord Mycroft said.

John walked stiffly to the centre of the room, between the two men.

“What is it you’ve got there?”

“Must you be so theatrical?” Sherlock snapped. “Are you going to do as you’ve said, Mycroft, or not?”

Mycroft merely smiled placidly at Sherlock before turning his attention back to John. “Yes. I’ve received some interesting reports about last night from Lestrade, and I’d like to know where you stand, John.”

John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, who had thrown himself back in his chair and was glaring with full force at Mycroft.

“You have many useful skills, John, and I’d be pleased to have you continue as my slave,” Mycroft said. “However, if you’d prefer to be permanently at Sherlock’s disposal, then I’m willing to allow him to purchase you.”

John looked down at the collar in his hand, which had seemed to grow heavier during the walk here. “Sir, would my contract belong entirely to Lord Sherlock?”

“Yes. I have generously allowed Sherlock the use of my slaves in the past, as he has none of his own.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction. “Of course, that might change if he continues to be as careless with them as he has been recently.”

“Really, Mycroft, you— ” Sherlock began, but Mycroft talked right over him.

“In this case, however, Sherlock is interested in acquiring your contract outright, which would make him your sole master. I suggest you consider what that might mean.”

“Alright,” John said. Mycroft watched him carefully, and Sherlock seemed to falter, glancing between John and Mycroft quickly, then back at the collar John held. “I’ve considered,” John said. He walked to Sherlock, knelt before his chair, and offered up the collar in steady hands.

Sherlock regarded him for a moment. Then he bent forward, undid the clasp on John’s old collar, pulled it off him, and tossed it to Mycroft. He lifted the new collar out of John’s hands, settled it around his neck, and fastened it firmly.

“Well,” Mycroft said. “So it is.”

“Satisfied, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

“Quite,” Mycroft said with a poorly-concealed smile

Sherlock stood and snapped his fingers. John rose as well, and soon found himself following Sherlock out of the room by another door. As soon as they were alone in the hallway, Sherlock crowded him against the wall. He slipped a finger under John’s collar, next to his pulse, and held John in place while he kissed him.

When he’d finished, he leaned his forehead against John’s and muttered, “Mine.”

“I’m not afraid,” John said.

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the collar tag with his insignia. “I know. I’ll strive never to make you so. Come along, John.”

Sherlock set off down the hall, and John followed. When he fell into step beside Sherlock, instead of two steps behind, as was proper, Sherlock did not correct him. John sneaked a hand up to feel his collar, and reassure himself that it was there. Beside him, Sherlock’s grin was wide.

“What now, sir?”

“Now, I continue my work.”

“Ah, yes.” John thought about that for a few steps, then asked, “What is your work, exactly?”

“Having second thoughts, John?” Sherlock shot him a sidelong glance.

“No,” John said. When he considered the way he’d felt the previous morning, unanchored despite his supposed master’s claim, he found his new situation infinitely superior.

“Good.” As they reached the door to the room, Sherlock pushed open the door and motioned John inside. “Then I’ll tell you about Moriarty.”


End file.
